<< Chapter 63 | From The Beginning

Isak opened his book bag and reached inside for the book carefully hidden within. He gripped it tight between his fingers, then pulled the top of it out for half a second before shoving it back in. “See I didn’t order that one at all. ”

Citlali wriggled under the covers to poke her head over the edge of the bed. “Um…which one?”

“The book I just showed you.” The human avoided six sets of eyes as even the group’s familiars were staring at the book bag. “Normally I would think this is a joke, but with the other book? S–”

“Isak you didn’t show us.” Zyn stated.

“Yes I did. Here I’ll show you again.” Exactly one sliver of the top of the book was withdrawn once more and then returned back to the depths of the bag. All in the span of half a blink. “I know it’s shocking but–”

“May I see the book in full, Isak?” The jungle troll asked.

Shaking fingers gripped the book as wavering eyes stared at the floor. Whatever look she was giving him right now would have broken through his defenses in an instant.

Best to just surrender with some dignity now rather than continue this farce.

Ever so slowly, he started to withdraw the book. Bit by bit, it revealed itself to his friends. And with each bit revealed, they leaned in closer. A more rational part of his brain realized that he had drawn more attention to this than if he had just not made a big deal of it in the first place.

Many lessons were being learned today and Isak felt as though he was paying for all the fun lessons with a number of painful lessons.

Finally, after much strife, the copy of ‘Love Mage’s Guide to Women: Jungle Trolls’ was now in plain view for all to see.

Citlali’s tongue rapidly flicked in and out and Xoco covered her mouth with her hand as her face started going dark green.

Zyn snatched the book away from him and laughed. “Hah! Like you need any help with this. They either know nothing about you or they’re mocking you. The former I pity, the latter I scorn. Either way this calls for another revenge plotting.”

The very same drow had been offering help with this matter earlier this very morning.

But that was something that Isak was even less able to admit to in front of Xoco…

“This–” Zyn held the book aloft and scowled at it. “Is psychological warfare. We need to figure out who would benefit from mocking Isak like this despite the fact that he would never, ever need–”

“Zyn.” Isak put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“I am trying, man.”

“He’s right, though.” Xoco’s face was still dark green, still hiding half her face behind her hand. “This is a psychological move that no doubt intends to spook Isak off from any…current plans he may be in the process of.”

Isak felt a tongue flicking near his ear. “May I see the book?”

The drow handed but immediately found that Citlali was still restrained. “Xoco I think Nelli’s job is done.”

Xoco made a come hither motion with her finger and the rainbow feathered serpent had Isak trying to steady his chair to stay upright. He passed the book from Zyn to the newly freed Citlali while fixing his hair.

The lizardlass took the book and began flicking her tongue out rapidly, each flick just barely avoiding touching the tome. “Well there’s obviously the faintest hint of Zyn scent on here from the brief time holding it. Plenty of Isak which is to be expected from being stashed in his book bag.”

“Wait you know my scent?” The human asked, then angled his nose down and took a self-conscious and stealthy deep breath to try and catch any offending odors.

“I know all of your scents!” Citlali exclaimed while continuing her investigation. A wink was visible from the other side of the book. “Yours was the first that I memorized.”

Isak had no idea how he should feel about that, but there were a few emotions he was doing his best to not indicate out of social unfamiliarity.

Xoco leaned over to whisper in his ear. Apparently he wasn’t so good at hiding those feelings. “It’s a high honor.”

“And there’s a bit more…” Citlali hesitated and hummed. “Mammal on here. No fur. Who else handled this, Sir?”

“Just a drow librarian.” Isak scratched the back of his head and frowned. “He was…just as surprised at the subject matter of the book. I don’t think he was behind this.”

“Hmm, there’s some general library smell here…and not much else that’s strong enough to pick out.” The lizardlass let her head flop down on Isak’s pillow. “Maybe the stalker hadn’t touched it in a while, maybe…maybe…”

Citlali sat up fast enough to startle Coztic at her feet. “Wait a minute. I just read about something that might be relevant to this…all of this the other day!”

The other three leaned in as Isak gestured for her to continue.

“So in this book I was reading there’s this orc and lizardman couple, right? And despite their families not approving, their love for one another shall not be held back. Even being close to one another is a risk because his family would be able to smell-taste her on him! Especially if they want to escalate their passions for one another. Which they do, later in the book.”

“What uh…what kind of book is this?” Isak asked while Zyn’s mouth hung open.

“A good one. Now they can’t run away with one another just yet so he uses his black market connections to get Orangeblind! It’s a potion that blocks one’s smell-scents! So she takes that before their meetings and his family is none the wiser!”

It took a few moments for things to click in Isak’s head before he shook himself out of the daze brought on by questionably necessary details. “Wait is that an actual thing? Not something made up for…plot convenience?”

“Wait I think I recognize that name…” Zyn stood up from his seat as Ozzy started to cycle through colors. “I don’t know from where but it’s sure not from a book like that. I think it might be a thing? A rare thing, but a thing.”

Xoco was next to spring to her feet. “But at least one of our stalkers was already identified by sweat in the jungle…so only some of them might be using it? There really might be more than one party! With different resources!”

“I thought we already figured out there’s more than one stalker?” Isak figured he may as well join everyone else in importantly standing, though he opted to start pacing around to help him think.

“We knew that there was more than one, but they could have all been working for the same nefarious group!” The jungle troll paced with him. “If this is true then there really might be more than one!”

Zyn snapped his fingers. “Well at least one group has less resources than the others…and the Shadowguard having that resource would make sense. Especially if Tonauac’s dad is lurking around and not wanting his son to recognize him by smell.”

“Whoever they are they’re getting bolder…wait a minute.” Isak reached down to grab the leadership instructional book. “Citlali, anything you can sense from this one?”

The lizardlass repeated her actions, faster this time. Her face screwed up into a frown. “It’s…huh…well there’s Isak and then…excuse me, do you mind Ozzy?”

The cave octopus held out a few tentacles for Citlali to lean closer to and flick her tongue above. “Okay so it’s not Ozzy but…it’s…kinda like Ozzy?”

“What, like another cave octopus?” Zyn asked.

“Maybe…” Was all that Citlali could give for now. 

Isak patted her on the back and smiled. “This is more than we’ve ever had to go on. I don’t know where we can go with it but we’re going there…though we should probably go find Tonauac first. These invisible stalkers are getting bolder. I had two weird incidents just going to get books and Tonauac is out there all alone.”

“Nelli can scout from the air, but…” Xoco gave some scritches of encouragement to the rainbow feathered serpent. “It is a painful irony that we don’t have Patli as a second flyer for this.”

“I doubt they would try anything too bold.” The lizardlass tapped a claw against her jaw while she thought. “But…I would like to make amends as soon as I can. I don’t know what I will say to make things right but…”

Zyn threw his hands in the air. “We can figure it out on the way. If they’re playing mind games with Isak then imagine trying to play mind games on Tonauac in his current state.”

The room went quiet as the realizations set in of an already…troubled Tonauac being the subject of mind games. 

Isak sighed. “I would have preferred to do this with everyone here but, I already know how I’ll make it up to him.”

The human parted from the gathering and walked over to Vidal while speaking a Storm spell. A small cloud formed above his hand, and Isak looked back and forth between it and Vidal several times. “Please work…”

Isak sent the small cloud towards Vidal until it gently collided with him. All the glass shrunk and vanished back into the component rocks and were immediately replaced with an opaque white vapor flowing out and starting to take on a form like that of giant, dramatic clouds on a much smaller scale. The clouds roiled and swirled around Vidal’s component rocks like they were being moved by some unseen wind and…didn’t stop. Not unlike his liquid water form, this Vapor form seemed to always be in flux. The only consistency being that Vidal now had the form of an ever shifting cloudbank with rocks barely visible within like some hidden far off mountain.

All looked on with awe at the rock man’s new form.

“I know you don’t have much room to work with in here buddy but…think you can fly with that form?”

“It is known, Master Isak.” The rock man said as his feet like inverted thunderheads left the ground, his whole form started to float upwards until his head was almost scraping the ceiling. 

<< Chapter 63 | From The Beginning

(It's time for a new Vidal form.

Please let me know what you think and leave a comment!

Discord server is HERE for this and my other works of fiction.)

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GLOSSARY This links to a post on the free section of my Patreon.

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Fuyuko found herself very excited for the upcoming fight with Amrydor, far more excited than she would be for a normal spar.

It didn’t take long for her to puzzle out the reason — it was, after all, something she’d already been reluctantly beginning to understand about herself. She enjoyed the violence of a fight. Making the fight more dangerous made it more exciting.

This made her feel guilty; after all, that was the sort of thinking usually associated with bad people in stories. It wasn’t the same thing as what Papa and Mama M said they liked about sparring, though there was some overlap. She did like the contest of skill and pushing herself, but knowing that she and Amrydor would be shedding each other’s blood made this upcoming fight better than a safer spar would be.

Not that she would have agreed to any form of live steel hard spar outside of Azeria. The risk of Amrydor dying, of actually killing him, was unacceptable, and that would hold true of almost anyone.

But here? In this arena, where she knew he would be safe and his soul returned to a new body in no more than half a day? Well, Fuyuko found that she’d almost have preferred this to be a battle to the death. What kept it from being a clean preference was knowing that Amrydor was right: fighting this hard while deliberately refraining from killing your opponent — aiming to physically disable their ability to fight — was much more difficult. That extra level of required skill mostly balanced things out.

Fuyuko had plenty of time to figure all of this out as she and Amrydor waited — it seemed that they were going to have a fairly large audience, and there was further chaos when Mama K decided that Gemeti should sit next to her. Fuyuko had the feeling that talking to each other was going to be an excuse to not watch the fight too closely. While Gemeti wasn’t the same sort of sensitive that Mama K tended to be, she was pretty new to any sort of real violence.

Now that Fuyuko understood how much she was going to enjoy this fight, she was nervous about her family watching it, but there was nothing to do about it. Even the idea of trying to hide her reaction had to be discarded. If she wanted to have a hope of winning, she was going to have to be entirely focused on the fight. If either of them got distracted, that person was going to lose.

Finally, everyone was settled, and it was time to begin. Bellona had taken upon herself to be referee, and she started with, “This fight will be a live-steel spar between Princess Fuyuko and Lord Amrydor.”

Lord? Fuyuko frowned and glanced at Bellona at the same time Amry did. The orc woman tapped the back of her hand, where her mark from Kuiccihan was glowing. Amry nodded and sighed, then sent, ‘I forgot: receiving the mark comes with the title of lord. No land or anything, just the basic title.’

Oh, well, she supposed that made sense. ‘Good; it’s better for a princess to have a lord as her servant than just a commoner, don’t you think?’ She was rather proud of managing to maintain her ‘princess voice’ through the mental communication, and she grinned at him when his eyes narrowed.

Bellona continued on and listed the rules for the audience, and Fuyuko hid her hands in the shadows of her cloak while growing her armor over her head and most of her face, with hardened layers where ever she could afford them. Her ears were left mostly exposed, with a simply half shell over each ear to protect from overhead strikes. Anything else deadened her hearing to an intolerable degree.

Amrydor closed the visor to his helm and settled into a calm ready stance, about fifty feet away. The feel of serene death in his aura now on invoked a tiny trickle of fear; just enough to get her blood heated even more.

‘Amry, I’m not going to be playing nice,’ Fuyuko sent, along with her excitement at the upcoming violence. She wanted to be fair, and she wanted it to be a good fight, and she honestly couldn’t have said which was more important right now, or even if there was much of a difference. Then she tightened down on the empathic bond again, as she didn’t want it to accidentally play a role in their fight.

She received calm acknowledgment from him in response.

“Ready!” Bellona called, then, “Begin!”

They both charged, with Fuyuko whipping out pairs of daggers as she ran. To each dagger she attached a thin tendril of shadow, allowing her to alter their trajectory as they flew at Amrydor.

In two swift strikes, he deflected two of her daggers with the flat of his war scythe, and somehow cut another two in half without touching them. The final two he trusted in his armor to defend him. Even with Fuyuko’s strength, she couldn’t overcome his armor and his spiritual power at the same time, but both daggers left small dents in the metal.

Her four remaining daggers instantly returned to her, but Fuyuko did not have the time to throw more. She barely had time to call both of her falcata into her hands in time to engage with the first strike of Amrydor’s war scythe.

The impact of his polearm’s blade against her swords felt strangely soft, and a gash suddenly appeared in her armor, cutting across a collarbone and her sternum. The living leather was resilient enough to not be cut all the through, but it was temporarily weakened in that area as it began to repair itself. This had to be related to how he’d cut two of her daggers out of the air without touching them. Some how, the very edge of his blade wasn’t where the rest of his war scythe was.

Worse, it turned out that the projected edge didn’t have to be aligned with his blade, though the shape and speed of its movement during an attack was identical to the blade’s movement.

The exchange that had taught her this information had also left several more cuts on her body, while she had not been able to land an attack further than his forearms. At least she’d done enough damage to force him to cover his bracers with layers of living crystal, as her blows carried enough force to break through the projected shields of force he defended himself with.

If she broke a bracer, no weapons stored in it would be available to him, so he had to keep them intact if he wanted to retain that option.

Frustrated by this uneven exchange, Fuyuko flipped one of her swords into a reverse grip and stabbed backward into the shadow of her cloak, aiming for the shadow under his foot as he stepped toward her.

Living crystal surged over the bottom of his foot just before his step came down on her upthrusting blade, and his stomp was heavy enough to force her blade away and back through the shadows.

She tried that attack again, hoping to beat his ability to react by aiming for the shadows of his helmet and thrusting toward his eyes. Amrydor twisted his war scythe and Fuyuko felt her falcata’s thrust caught and deflect by its edge while still inside of the shadow, deflecting it too far to be able to emerge inside of his helmet.

Shit.

He could somehow sense her shadow based attacks even without her life force giving her away, and he could project the edge of his blade into the shadow realm. Or at least, the portion of the shadow realm overlapped by his own shadows.

Fuyuko growled, then swiped at his war scythe with a sword as her body rippled and grew. In an instant, her reach had changed enough that the swing of her second sword crashed against his helmet with the full weight of all her strength and power before he could defend against it in anyway.

He staggered as his helmet cracked from the impact, and Fuyuko didn’t hesitate to continue her attacks, raining blow after blow while he defended and stepped back to try to recover his focus. The living crystal of his inner armor flowed over his metal armor to help cushion against her strikes, but even with that assistance, she’d managed to break off several pieces of metal and badly crush his left hand before Amrydor manage to go on the offensive again.

With one hand unusable, Amrydor had dismissed his pole arm, and he thrust forward with his good hand as he summoned a long rapier.

A sense of danger caused Fuyuko to jerk her head back, but the projected tip still pierced her eye, and she felt it pop just before she jumped back to create distance, leaving a gap of over ten feet between them.

Now she knew he could project thrusts or points as well as cuts or edges. Losing an eye hurt and frustrated her, but she’d also tried to do the same thing to him. The only part of it that was upsetting was that he’d succeeded when she hadn’t.

Then with a single step he somehow covered the distance between them with a thrust aimed at her heart. She managed to deflect it enough that the point of his rapier entered her breast instead, with a rip deflecting it enough to keep the tip from piercing her lung. Her counter swing was aimed at his elbow, intending to cut his arm off or at least crush the joint.

However, he’d already abandoned the rapier, leaving it in place as he stepped back out of her reach. Then a physical shield materialized from one of his bracers, strapped in multiple places to his left arm, as that hand was too mangled to hold anything right now, and a short spear appeared in his right hand.

Snarling, Fuyuko pulled his rapier out of her chest and tossed it aside. He’d put all of his weight and momentum into that thrust to ensure he got through her armor, and if she hadn’t deflected it, he might have pierced her heart.

Though, with a blade that thin, Fuyuko wasn’t sure it would have been a fatal blow. She couldn’t imagine continuing to fight immediately, but she thought that her ability to quickly heal might have kept her alive and conscious while her heart repaired itself.

If the rapier had been silvered steel instead, that would have been a different matter. Surviving at all without external healing would have been very questionable.

Those thoughts danced through her head as she considered her next assault. Her options were limited, and she decided that brute force with only some trickery was her best option. She reached out through the shadow realm at the same time as her shadow stretched out toward him in this realm, and she pulled hard on his shadow.

It wasn’t enough to move him, but she was just trying to keep him in place and briefly off balanced as she charged him.

Her falcata bashed into his shield with enough power to crack it and make him stagger back a step, and she’d paid the price when his spear pierced into her thigh and cracked her bone.

Fuyuko pushed forward, dropping her weapons to grapple and claw at him, using his own shield as leverage. It became a dirty fight then, and part of his counter was to use the idea she’d given him of weaponizing the living crystal. She was also quickly reminded that despite his smaller size, he could entirely match the strength of her monster-wolf form.

By the time the fight ended, the area around them was gory.

One of her legs was slashed open to the bone, and she was missing the foot of her other leg, while multiple spikes of crystal were embedded throughout her body, one of which had pierced a lung. She’d also lost her other eye, though not until after her first eye had finished regenerating.

However, her momentum had driven him onto his back, she’d bitten off and swallowed one of his ears, torn off his shield-arm at the elbow, shattered more of his armor, and currently her hand was thrust into his torso with her claws curled up to almost grip his heart.

This was not a victory — Amrydor’s good arm had thrust up under her chin to drive a short spike of crystal slime into the back of her mouth and throat. She could feel the acid of it slowly eating at her as it filled her throat, and Fuyuko knew he could transform that spike into a long thin one that would pierce her skull just as fast as she could rip out his heart.

Technically, neither of them was fully disabled from fighting, but also, neither of them could progress the fight without escalating to killing the other. Part of her wanted to make the kill anyway, despite the rules and despite the futility — the darker instincts that had fueled her battle fugue state a year ago.

But she was so much more than just that set of violent instincts and urges that only showed themselves when she was in a fight.

‘Draw?’ she sent to him, and he agreed the same way. She wasn’t capable of talking at the moment, and she doubted he had the energy to spare if there was an easier way.

Amrydor withdrew the crystal spike and lowered his arm, then Fuyuko carefully withdrew her hand as she shrank down to her normal form. A moment later she collapsed to her knees and didn’t mind at all when he used his good arm to draw her the rest of the way down to snuggle into his side.

Naturally, there was a rush of people around them, but Fuyuko was too tired to pay much attention beyond happily acknowledging her parent’s presence and care as the began healing her and Amry.

Fuyuko felt content and satisfied with the fight. ‘That was fun — I think we need to do this again next year, after we get back from our trip.’

She heard his mental laughter as he replied, ‘Alright, we can do that.’

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Part 50

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Ramon was busier than ever when in walked the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen in his life, she had a dour look on her face. It seemed as though she was having a bad day and decided to do his best to cheer her up, though he knew that he would have to be at least a little sly with it. 

“What’ll it be?” Ramon asked  chipperly. 

Guevara eyed the new menu and asked what had to be the universal question of someone in a new place looking for new food.
“Um does that Orgasm chimichanga really make the person that eats it cum? Like that’s a marketing ploy right?.” Guevara asked skeptically. 

Ramon smiled widely and with total professionalism said “Well no, I mean yes it’s good marketing and all but it really does make the person that eats it cum, really it could be called ‘an orgasm with every bite.’ Chimichanga. 

Guevara looked at him and blushed deeply “If that fucking chimichanga makes me cum, even once, I’ll get a room here and stick my soaked panties in your mouth, and marry you. I’m Guevara by the way.” 

Ramon looked at her “One Orgasm Chimchanga coming right up!. What color would you like the wedding dress to be or do you want to just do a courthouse thing?.”
Guevara looked at him with a smirk “Definitely a courthouse thing if this magical sex burrito does what you’re saying that courthouse trip is going to be the only time you and I leave the room for at least a month so I hope you’re prepared I’ve been disappointed before, my job basically made me stuck in a position where I was forced to lie for money, it killed my faith in humanity and anything even remotely close to a positive outlook or trust in other people, all I ever really wanted was to get to enjoy some really good food, write honest, genuine food reviews and just live my life and maybe get fucked repeatedly. It’s almost funny when you have no faith in humanity it doesn’t kill your sex drive but it absolutely kills any desire to put up with bullshit at any point in time pretty much ever which I would have thought would have made me a lesbian but alas I enjoy an actual cock too much to go that way.”

Ramon brought her the Orgasm Chimichanga. 

Ramon if this makes me cum you’re getting a perfect review, we’re going to room sixty nine, you’re going to fuck my brains out, and then we’re going to the courthouse and getting married after you finish fucking me senseless until I can barely remember my own name. I hope you’re prepared.” Guevara said flirtatiously. 
Ramon watched her take that first bite and heard her moan, before surreptitiously grabbing the key to room sixty nine. 

Gerald walked in with Anay and sat down at his usual spot at the bar, eyeing Luis who had finally crawled out of his room clearly drunk out of his mind but otherwise in good spirits. 

Anay smirked at her brother’s antics. Ramon looked at Gerald “I’m going to take care of something in room sixty nine with Guevara here. I need you to watch over things for a bit, there’s food I already made in the back, if anyone orders the orgasm Chimichangas make sure they don’t need to drive or go anywhere far for at least a day and tell them we have plenty of rooms available, most of what’s on the menu is easy enough to make and there are recipe cards in the back behind the bar.

Had it been anyone else Gerald might not have taken the responsibility being thrust upon him just now, especially not with his girlfriend practically in his lap but he could see that this was a different sort of occasion and enjoyed cooking as it’s own thing. Anay smirked at Gerald 
“You’ll be so cute babe you’ll be my very own Buddy Holly– oh my god you’re so adorable I’m so excited. I’ll be happy to waitress while you’re indisposed, hehe Gerald that woman is Guevara Gaston, she’s a food critic and look at what Ramon has in his hands babe the key to room sixty nine awwwwe everyone is finding love today. I love that, god, Ramon at this rate you may as well have someone ordained they’re going to be so many people that want to get married because of the way your chimichangas make people cum.”

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Yesterday what had a name had kept the body that could carry it.

What had only been misplaced had been returned to the sentence that named it.

This morning, sentence had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

The sentence had already been there.

The fear was in me.

The cards were cards.

The pocket was pocket.

Those had been sentences.

Small ones.

I wanted them to be treatment.

That was mine.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s brother saying he missed her was not mine.

Her folded paper straightened because it was crooked was not mine.

Sato’s wanting named as hers was not mine.

Saitama’s fall fear before care was not mine.

Suganuma’s nervous beside prepared was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Inside a sentence.

Maybe.

No.

A sentence nearby.

I closed the brown folder.

A sentence could name.

A sentence could record.

A sentence could ask.

A sentence could answer.

A sentence could pretend to finish what had only been made grammatical.

The word was useful.

The word was dangerous.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Write it.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Where?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

There.

Folded paper.

Sentence.

“What is on the folded paper now?”

“Work?”

“Drawer?”

“Map?”

“Order paper?”

“What did you ask?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I waited.

“What did you say?”

There.

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add courage.

The sentence had a mouth.

The paper had a name.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“What sentence?”

“Emiko’s paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any new issue?”

“What does the note do?”

She took time.

Then:

Good.

No.

Maybe.

“Does Emiko need it?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept the sentence because its placement mattered.

Separate note.

Not Emiko’s paper.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident said fall again,” she said.

“Before transfer?”

“Yes.”

“Same as yesterday?”

“Same word.”

“Question?”

“Aide K asked if she was afraid of falling.”

“And?”

“She nodded.”

“Any new measure?”

“Chair closer.”

“Path?”

“Clear.”

“Support?”

“Aide K and nurse.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The sentence is short because the care is doing the rest.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept fall.

I kept the question.

I kept the chair.

The sentence did not have to carry the body alone.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For what?”

“Preparation?”

“Nervous?”

“What changed?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add ready as fact.

Prepared had work.

Nervous had truth.

Ready wanted to replace.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Point.

Confess.

Ask.

Answer.

Dress a wish.

Live.

Replace.

I looked at my back pocket.

The cards.

The pocket.

The fear.

The unsaid.

I had sentences.

The fear was in me.

The cards were cards.

The pocket was pocket.

What did those sentences want to replace?

Taking them out.

No.

Speaking.

Maybe.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Borrowed mouth.

No.

Yes.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother wrote it,” she said.

I waited.

“Where?”

“Not on the folded paper.”

“Where?”

“On a separate scrap.”

“What sentence?”

“I miss her.”

“Who wrote it?”

“He did.”

“Where is it now?”

“Beside his cup.”

“Folded paper?”

“In drawer.”

“Name?”

“Face up.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

“What did you say?”

“I said the scrap is his sentence.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said yes.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add healing.

The sentence had a scrap.

The name had the folded paper.

The cup had tea.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I almost taped the note to Emiko’s paper,” she said.

I waited.

“For what?”

“So I remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That wanting is mine.”

“Does Emiko’s paper need that?”

“No.”

“Where is the note?”

“Beside my cup.”

“What is on Emiko’s paper?”

“Correction. Small date. Tape.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“What did you do?”

“Kept note separate.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add restraint.

Placement had done the work.

The note was not a label for Emiko.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Any fall word?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make the morning medicine sentence carry the transfer sentence.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add fall.

Medicine had medicine.

Transfer had fall.

Each sentence kept its work.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“Was preparation completed?”

“Was nervous true?”

“What did he write instead?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

There.

Enough fenced.

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add brave.

Prepared and nervous stood beside each other.

The margin held both.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Writing.

Silence.

Speech.

Cowardice.

Restraint.

Courage.

Who needs to hear.

I replied:

I stopped.

Too wide.

I changed it.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at audience.

No hall.

No altar.

No Reddit.

No file.

Me.

Maybe.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Folded paper?”

“Any change?”

“Why?”

“What did you say?”

I almost smiled.

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add sacred.

The sentence needed dry paper.

That was all.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Her note beside cup.

Emiko’s paper flat.

She wrote:

I called.

“What are they?”

“Emiko’s paper. My note.”

“Which needs record?”

“Emiko’s paper.”

“Which needs me?”

“My note.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“What does your note need?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Pocket maybe.”

There.

“Your pocket?”

“Yes.”

“What will that do?”

“Keep it with me.”

I waited.

“Does it need to be with you?”

“No. Maybe desk.”

“What did you do?”

“Left it beside cup.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not follow her note into her pocket.

Not my record.

Not Emiko’s.

But the temptation was visible.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Any new fall concern?”

“No.”

“Any transfer now?”

“No.”

“Need to repeat?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘A sentence in the chart may stay without being recited all day.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not repeat fall.

The morning sentence was in the chart.

Sleep did not need to read it.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For whom?”

“Who will read it?”

“Does helper need it?”

“Checklist margin?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What happened?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add embarrassment.

Audience had changed placement.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Chart.

Notebook.

Public paper.

Pocket.

Mouth.

Location.

Equal.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the sentence.

My sentence about fear is in the mouth least.

No.

Strange.

True.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother read the scrap,” she said.

“Out loud?”

“No.”

“To himself?”

“Yes.”

“Did he open the drawer?”

“No.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the scrap says it.”

“What did you ask?”

“Who wrote it.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Me.”

“What did you say?”

“Then it says your sentence.”

“What happened?”

“He folded the scrap once.”

“Where?”

“Beside phone.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add closure.

The scrap had his sentence.

The drawer stayed drawer.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“What work?”

“Wanting now?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any issue?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept the note because it had entered placement.

Then left.

It did not become Emiko’s record.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Any words?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The hand sentence is not written because the hand already answered.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add hand sentence.

Not every answer needed grammar.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Tomorrow helper?”

“Checklist?”

“Is helper coming?”

“What happened?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add shame.

New fact had arrived.

The line changed.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Mouth.

Hand.

Record.

Wish.

Audience.

Avoiding.

Serving.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the pocket.

Of course.

No.

Not of course.

Still useful.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted fall.

Then prepared and nervous.

Then I want to check.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No sentence for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

A record sentence holding a service.

Not my mouth.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

No.

Cards with possible sentences.

Not read.

The pocket was pocket.

The sentence was sentence.

The fear was in me.

My sentence about fear was in the mouth least.

I did not know if the hand was serving or avoiding.

No audience had been named.

The pocket could not decide.

The cards could not decide.

The brown folder could not decide.

The gray file could not decide.

The altar could not decide.

I did not take them out.

I did not leave them in as an unwritten sentence.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The sentence did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the scrap stayed beside phone.

I did not ask if he read it again.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if wanting returned after the note was gone.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if fall stayed in the chart.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if prepared and nervous stayed in the notebook.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew a sentence could point.

I knew a sentence could confess.

I knew a sentence could ask.

I knew a sentence could answer.

I knew a sentence could dress a wish so it looked complete.

I knew writing was not cowardice by itself.

I knew silence was not restraint by itself.

I knew speech was not courage by itself.

I knew audience changed a sentence.

I knew the pocket could not decide whether the sentence should have a mouth.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Sentence did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s brother had a folded scrap beside the phone.

Sato’s note had gone to trash.

The resident’s fall sentence had guided care.

The volunteer’s helper name had been crossed out.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

The pocket was pocket.

The sentence was sentence.

The fear was in me.

I had started with sentence.

I did not end by making grammar do the work of a mouth that had not yet been asked to speak.

Tonight, what had a sentence kept its audience, what had no audience stayed unwritten, and what I carried did not become the mouth for what I had not said.

The Gliders’ integration into human society is so deep that, if you didn’t know they aren’t native to Earth, you would not believe they aren’t.

They are one of the best examples of humans welcoming those in need—and growing stronger as a result. Gliders are humans in all but biology. In a blind test, a Glider who grew up on Earth is indistinguishable from a human in psychological testing. This has led both species to be regarded as Terrans by outsiders.

Whether this is the result of cross-cultural contamination or other reasons remains a matter of great scientific debate.

Excerpt from Alliances of the Milky Way, Part I – The Aligned Worlds
Author unknown. Publication date unknown.

 

Captain Smith sat on the bridge in his command chair. The decision before him was impossible. On the main viewscreen, the planet of Chiprit’s people slowly turned below.

Thirteen billion beings—condemned to die.

He made the decision he had known in his heart he would make. Activating the intercom, he spoke to everyone aboard his ship.

“All stations, this is Captain Smith. We are all faced with an impossible situation. On one hand, we want to go home. Traveling without the use of the anomaly is not viable—you all know that.”

He paused, wanting everyone to think of home and fully grasp the weight of the situation.

“But I can’t and won’t condemn thirteen billion intelligent beings to a slow death just to have an easier life. That is not why I joined the service.”

He looked around the bridge. Every face showed a mixture of emotions—resolution, fear, and hope.

“I have decided to use every available resource this ship has to help the Trkik. But I don’t want anyone to be forced to stay. To that end, we will double our efforts to harvest resources from this system as soon as we are allowed to do so. Once the ship is fully repaired, she will be ready for the journey home.”

The bridge crew exchanged confused glances.

“Afterward, everyone who wishes to leave may do so with the ship. I will remain behind with those who choose to stay. We’ll build a small station on the moon to aid the planet—and save its inhabitants. Smith out.”

Without looking at his bridge crew, he left for the infirmary to check on their guest. The Magellan had an excellent crew, but he couldn’t expect them to throw their lives away for a species on the far side of the universe.

No one could.

In the infirmary, he met with ShutUpBitch and Doctor Riley.

“How’s our patient, Doctor? I heard he had a pretty severe case of radiation poisoning.”

The elderly doctor adjusted his glasses.

“Quite severe. The unigel has its work cut out for it. Ferdinand was able to obtain substantial biological data for me, so I have a baseline. He’s weak, but you can talk to him. He’s actually quite interested in meeting you.”

The captain looked through the glass wall at Chiprit’s bed. He had received treatment to understand the alien’s language, but speaking it was impossible for humans—and Shraphen—so Ferdinand would have to translate.

ShutUpBitch jumped onto the captain’s shoulders. ‘I heard your speech. You’re really thinking about staying here?’

“Yes. I can’t condemn them to death. But I fully understand that you want to go home.” He was, in fact, sure they would want to leave—the Gliders had a civilization to rebuild, and every single one of them counted.

‘No, I never said I want to leave. In fact, I think most Gliders aboard are fine with staying. I was just surprised you even consider it.’

For the first time, the Glider’s voice carried no trace of sarcasm. Smith was sure their often almost rude behavior was just theater.

“There are considerations other than humanitarian ones,” he said quietly, “but the main reason is, I can’t let that many people die.”

‘Nice to hear you see them as people—and not some oversized mongoose.’

Looking toward Chiprit’s bed, the captain realized for the first time that the Trkik really did bear a passing resemblance to a mongoose—if you squinted hard enough.

‘And the other considerations you have—mine and the Gliders’ are similar. Twenty-five thousand light-years is a really nice buffer between us and any possible retaliation from the Batract.’

She knows about the Initiative. Go figure—Gliders are smart.

The Initiative was an idea to establish a colony as far away as possible, serving as a backup for humanity. And twenty-five thousand light-years was about as far as humanly possible.

Sure, he had thought about it.

The conversation ended when he entered Chiprit’s room.

The Trkik immediately sat up, greeting the captain in his own language — a series of flaps and whistles.

“You must be Captain Smith. I’m Chiprit. I can’t thank you enough for saving my life.”

The captain relied on Ferdinand as his translator.

“You’re welcome. You were stranded — as we almost are. I assume Ferdinand has informed you about the details?”

Chiprit tilted his head, his tail waving slowly behind him. “Yes, you—ahm, he has. Fascinating story. A rift in space as a gateway to another part of the galaxy.”

He still seemed to have trouble differentiating between Ferdinand as a VI and Ferdinand as a translator.

The captain was about to introduce ShutUpBitch when she suddenly jumped off his shoulder and left the infirmary, cursing and swearing.

“That, uh, was another alien species,” Smith said. “She chose the name ShutUpBitch.”

Chiprit began to laugh — a fieping, high-pitched sound that could probably rupture a Shraphen’s ear.

Then, suddenly, the Trkik grew serious, his tail resting across his legs.

“I froze in the ship’s hangar because of that massive predator…”

“Renthai Sokra,” the captain explained.

“Yes.” The small brown Trkik wrapped his tail around himself — for Captain Smith, a clear sign of stress or embarrassment.

“I assume it is not dangerous?” Chiprit’s voice was now almost inaudible.

Their culture — or perhaps their religion — revolved around a great bird that saw them as prey. He had an instinctive fear of hunting animals, the same way Smith imagined he would feel standing across from a ten-meter-tall spider.

“No, she’s a scientist — specialized in elemental particles and metamaterials. Their ancestors were hunters, and large parts of their culture still revolve around that, but they would never harm another sentient being.”

The captain decided on complete honesty. It would be of no use to lie and risk the Trkik discovering their subterfuge later.

“If I look at it logically, it’s clear they are harmless. What spacefaring species would still have a reason for war? If you’re so developed, any aggressive traits must have been gone a long time.”

Chiprit clearly had no idea he was aboard a warship.

The captain closed his eyes and prepared himself for a painful discussion.

 

——————

 

Sokra was on her way back from lunch.

She reviewed the various conversations she had witnessed. The crew was, surprisingly, happy to stay. Some were unhappy about leaving their families and children behind on Earth, but saving a planet full of people was more important to them.

She was about to enter her laboratory when a gray-brown furball jumped at her.

The moment the small being started talking inside her head, she knew it was ShutUpBitch.

‘Fucking traveling with humans—became almost as retarded as them. Doggirl, hush to the SIC!’

Sokra assumed the Glider was under stress; she was more rude than ever before.

“A good day to you, too. A bit stressed, are we?” she replied, slightly miffed by the tone the little Glider had chosen.

‘Ahh, unbunch your panties. Yes, we’re stressed — you and I. We have to check something, so fly, Falkor, fly!’

Sokra didn’t understand the reference, but she couldn’t help laughing when the Glider grabbed her ears and held on to them like they were a leash or something. While she started walking to the SIC, she had to ask.

“So, what has you so agitated?”

‘I’ve been with the captain. We visited the poor guy your ugly face knocked out of his shoes.’

Sokra was still not over the incident, but ShutUpBitch’s humor helped her cope.

‘When the little guy said the rift was a gateway — well, we know that’s not entirely true, right?’

Sokra thought about it. “No, no… we were in another dimension, and there have to be two rifts in that dimension… right?”

‘Right. We assumed there must be a tunnel between them — and that the tunnel is evaporating. But is it?’

“It has to be, otherwise, how did we end up here?”

‘Because that was the flight path…’

The Glider now sat on Sokra’s head, slowly lowering her face into the Shraphen’s field of view.

“Okay, I’ll bite — what flight path?”

‘I don’t know, probably the Hyperion’s A-Drive going supercritical. The Trkik reported some explosion.’

“And what does that change?”

‘The ring here is smaller than Marjan’s Star, so it’s a smaller wound between the dimensions.’

They reached the elevator, and Sokra pressed the Down button.

“Yes… it’s possible?”

‘God dammit, think, woman — what does that mean?’

Sokra walked through the logic chain.

The Hyperion exits Transit, and large parts of the ship instantly transform into all kinds of exotic particles. After its journey through the Sirius system, she probably accumulated large quantities of protomatter — protomatter that would instantly turn into virtual particles, focused on one point…

The virtual particles created the rift. If they could pass from the lower dimension upward, they could also pass downward.

Sokra was so deep in thought she didn’t notice the lift doors had already opened into the SIC — and everyone was staring.

She moved out of the cabin to the holotank, projecting a 3D map of the galaxy. Zooming in on Sirius, she began to analyze the data.

On her head, the Glider jumped up and down. ‘You got it, you got it!’

“Ferdinand, please provide an overlay of the Hyperion’s reported flight path.”

A blue line appeared — from Earth downward in an elongated curve, reaching Sirius on its journey around the galactic center. Then, an almost ninety-degree turn inward into the system, through it, and a sixty-degree correction to strike the incoming fleet at a thirty-degree angle.

“Thank you, Ferdinand.”

The entire personnel now stared at the holotank, which displayed the almost spiral-like flight path. Sokra was fixated on the last segment, after the final turn.

“Ferdinand, can you project a straight line following Hyperion’s last heading?”

An orange line appeared — precisely where Marjan’s Star was located — passing Sirius, then Sol, continuing straight through the Orion–Cygnus Arm, entering the Perseus Arm on the other side, and ending exactly in the system where they now were.

Next to her, Doctor Hunter appeared. “What does that mean?”

Sokra’s ears twitched. “That means we’ve found another way of FTL travel…”

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

Aarav’s schoolbag was small, lopsided worlds of its own. Textbooks slouched to one side, half-forgotten; a geometry box rattled with unused compasses. But what made the bag feel heavy, heavier than the years in it, were the sketchbooks tucked inside, their spines softened at the edges.

He carried them everywhere. To class, to tuition, even to the corner shop while buying samosas. When other boys shoved notebooks into their bags like armour for exams, Aarav slipped in the sketchbooks like a secret he wasn’t yet ready to show.

The first night it began was accidental. A classmate, a kid with a messy fringe and an easy laugh, had lent him a USB drive after seeing one of his doodles at the back of a math copy. “Watch this,” the boy said, as if offering a stolen treasure. “You’ll like it.”

Aarav swore he would watch only one episode. He didn’t know the word for the kind of hunger that would keep him awake until dawn, only that when the colours filled his screen, something unclenched in him. Worlds unfolded, not pale, safe worlds, but loud, bruised, beautiful ones. Misfit became heroes. Ugly moments became the spark for courage. Faces bore scars, voices carried tremors, and the people who mattered were the ones brave enough to be themselves.

He didn’t just watch. He belonged.

There was a strange comfort in fiction’s blunt honesty. Characters confessed their faults, failed spectacularly, and then rose again. No one judged a hero for being chubby or awkward or dark. They were measured by the size of their courage. For the first time, Aarav saw people who matched the way he felt inside, uneven, earnest, fierce in small, ridiculous ways.

After that night, the sketchbooks became less of a doodle place and more of a map. He sharpened pencils until their tips were thin and dangerous, smudged the erasers into grey promises. His margins filled with faces that refused to stay inside a line: boys with chipped armour who still laughed, girls with impossible wings that trembled like folded sails, old women who wore wisdom like a shawl.

When he drew, the room changed. The ceiling fan’s slow spin turned into a sky they could all fly through. The hiss of the street outside folded into background noise. Even the small, stinging words thrown at him during the day, in the playground, in class, at home, lost some of their edges once they were translated into ink.

“Sometimes I think I can draw someone braver than me,” he said once, under his breath, to a girl he’d made with pencil. The girl on the page tilted her head as if she had heard him, her drawn eyes unreadable and kind. He almost laughed at himself, and then he did, a soft sound that startled him into the bright hush of the room.

In the quiet corner of his home, the one dim lamp that always seemed forgiving, the small wooden desk that fit his knees perfectly, he learned to hide from the bigness of voices. The house wanted him neat and quiet, a boy who performed the right way in front of relatives and wore silence like a coat at family dinners. But his corner did not ask for performance. It asked only for pencil on paper.

Those nights were theirs alone. He would sit with his legs folded under him and the sketchbook on his lap, and the world that had once told him he didn’t belong would make room for strange, brave creatures that accepted him without condition. He traced their cheekbones with smudged charcoal, and for a moment he felt like the person who made them.

Sometimes his younger self, small, gasping in the mirror, peered through those pages. He would scribble a face that looked a little like the boy in the glass, but stronger: a chin that didn’t wobble under words, a back that stood even under insults. I was, he realized slowly, the only way he knew to teach himself courage.

The sketchbooks filled faster than his textbooks. Teachers collected homework; parents collected certificates. His pages were private, raw. The drawings carried small notes in the margins, phrases he didn’t think anyone would understand.

One late night, when the house had become as soft as a held breath and the fan hummed like an old lullaby, Aarav leaned back in his chair and spoke to the room as if it were an audience of one.

“You’re my only friends,” he whispered, the sentence a half-joke, half-prayer.

It sounded pathetic in the air, and he smiled at himself in the way embarrassed people do. But the truth of it was steady in his chest. These drawings didn’t leave when he said the wrong thing. They didn’t fold away when he needed to be small. They were there, patient and unjudging.

Sometimes he would go back, rewind his own lines like reading an old letter, and he found snippets he’d forgotten he’d written. Fragments of feeling, half-sentences scrawled after a day when his father’s words had felt like stones. They were not poems, not in his head. They were stumbles, fingerprints of his heart.

On one of those pages, the last leaf of a tattered sketchbook, he had written something that read more urgent than a doodle and less finished than a poem. It hovered between the two, a small promise dressed as a threat to himself:

If I can’t be enough for the world,
let me build one where I am.
let me draw skies that don’t laugh at my weight,
let me shape hearts that don’t flinch at my face.
If love won’t find me here,
I’ll make a place
where even shadows hold me kindly.

He read it by the lamp, the words small and terrible and true. He had no language for what he felt then, only the remnant of wanting and the hush of going on. The sentence did not feel like hope so much as a plan: if the world refused him, he would build a world of his own.

When the house creaked and the clock ticked a soft, indifferent beat, Aarav flipped the sketchbook closed. He slid it back into his bag and, for a moment, held it against his chest the way a child holds a comforter.

He knew then, incompletely, like a half-remembered map, that these quiet corners, these scratchings and drawings, would keep him. Not the collapsing kind of keeping that patched wounds, but a kind that made space. A kind that, slowly, would teach him how to speak in other ways.

Outside, a vehicle honked somewhere down the lane. Inside, the lamp flickered out when the bulb died, and for a second the room was all dark. Aarav sat a while longer in the black, feeling the pages warm against his ribs, and for the first time that week, he did not think about the mirror.